


Eighties Shades & Cigarettes

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-29
Updated: 2006-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-05 09:43:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a one-shot AU set in various locations in the United States.  Elijah is a quirky, self-confident writer and Orlando is a UN recruiter with a somewhat complicated past.  Can a couple cynical romantics come together, fuck all the odds?  Well of course they can!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eighties Shades & Cigarettes

**Author's Note:**

> Some places herein are real, and some are not. Keep that in mind. Also this is my first fic in present tense, but I enjoyed writing this way, and had a lot of fun with the immediacy of it. Snap snap, dialogue! Snap, snap!

The first time Orlando sees him, he's leaning against a counter at a cheap cafÈ in New Orleans, near Tulane campus. His t-shirt—white, some sort of obscure band logo emblazoned across the front—is rucked up a bit, revealing a small, delicate tattoo at the small of his back. His jeans hug his arse perfectly, a purple patch on either side, and a pack of Marlboro Lights sticks out of one pocket. He's wearing shades, even indoors, and there's a chocolate beignet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Orlando pays for his black coffee, silently, and insinuates himself on the high stool next to the fetching young man.

"Morning."

The kid looks slightly surprised at the sound, and then turns, slowly, his hip pressing into the tiled countertop as his eyes give Orlando a quick up-and-down behind the shades.

"Good morning," he replies, a soft smirk passing over his lips.

"Are you a student?" Orlando asks, feeling suddenly awkward and wishing he too had a couple of tinted pieces of glass hiding his reactions comfortably from view.

The kid smiles slowly and shakes his head, turning his eyes to face forward again, sipping from his mocha before he speaks to Orlando. "No. Writer."

"Oh. What are you writing about?" Orlando asks. By now, he's sure he looks like a complete twat, but dives in headfirst anyway.

"Colleges. One of those annual review publications," he answers, rather matter-of-fact. "What are you doing so far from home?" he asks, and Orlando forgives the by now positively boring question because the young man has categorically ignored his own twattery.

"Recruiting," Orlando replies, simply. Takes another sip of coffee.

Elijah's smirk is more pronounced this time, and he raises an eyebrow over the dark glass barrier. "Wasting your time, mate. Signed up for that team long ago."

Elijah gracefully nibbles on his beignet as Orlando stares. "Shit, no, I mean… Jesus Christ." He laughs and shakes his head, and to his gratification, Elijah offers a small smile in return. "I work for the United Nations," he clarified. "Looking for interested future graduates."

"Ah." Elijah takes another bite, followed by a sip, doesn't look entirely interested.

"I'm Orlando," he offers, a bit desperately, crossing his right hand over his body. Elijah's own wrist bends awkwardly to shake in the tight space.

"Elijah."

"So, d'you run the circuit too?"

Elijah gives Orlando a blank look. "The circuit?"

"You know, universities, cities… you're around."

Elijah just smiles and nods. "Yeah, I'm around. And you're fishing."

Orlando frowns. "No, mate, I…" He shrugs, giving up. "I'll see you around, maybe. I've got a workshop to run."

Elijah looks amused, turns back to his breakfast. "See you around."

 

The second time they run into each other, a couple of weeks later, Orlando's starting to regret his job, just a bit. His pressed black suit, black tie, look so boring and white collar next to Elijah's almost "fuck you" student gear. This time, he's wearing a black t-shirt with a small white logo that reads, "I like boys who wear eyeliner." Orlando almost wonders if he's gotten punched yet—this is Texas, after all—but doesn't comment on the shirt, just walks up to the booth with his basket of nachos and foil wrapped burrito in hand, sweet tea under one arm.

"Mind if I sit down?"

Elijah looks up and smiles, broader than Orlando might expect, a cigarette dangling precariously between two fingers. He puts down his book and gestures to the other side of the booth.

"How's recruiting?"

Orlando snorts, shakes his head. "I might have better luck with the 'other team,'" he replies, blushing as the leather seat squelches embarrassingly and busying himself with the dousing of his nachos in the provided hot sauce.

"No good candidates? That's pretty fucking hot, by the way."

Orlando looks down at himself, and then realises Elijah is referring to the sauce. His cheeks get redder and he adds an extra squirt for good measure. Slight masochism always was a good anecdote to wounded pride.

"They're perfect, I'm sure," Orlando says in answer to the question. "Perky little blondes in designer business suits with charming drawls and CVs like you wouldn't believe, just clambering to 'make a difference.' They bore me," he explains with a shrug, dipping a nacho and then bugging his eyes out comically as the sauce hits his throat. "Fuck!"

Elijah smirks and slides his own glass of water. "Tea won't cure that, man. Help yourself."

Orlando nods thankfully around the rim of the glass, already gulping down as much as he can take in one pass. As he slams the plastic glass back down on the table, nodding gratefully to the waitress who instantly appears to refill it, he thinks he catches Elijah giving a look of appreciation at his swallowing skills. Or maybe not.

"So how's the book?" Orlando asks once he's doused the fire, biting into his monstrous bean burrito and groaning in pleasure at the taste. Nothing like Tex-Mex in downtown Austin.

"Good enough, I suppose. I interview students, get my stock answers. Interesting opinions most of the time but the publisher doesn't give a shit about that, so it's stock quotations for the official file."

"What, is there an unofficial file?"

Elijah smiles and nods, snagging one of Orlando's nachos and shaking the sauce off of it. "I like interesting people. I keep records. Never know when they might come in handy."

Orlando raises an eyebrow. "You keep records of everyone, or just the people you interview?"

"Everyone I meet," Elijah responds, his direct look challenging as he bites into and swallows the chip.

"Did you take any notes on me?"   
Elijah grins, pleased that Orlando's taken the bait. "New Orleans. January 2006. Rich English boy, about twenty-five, six two, one fifty, works for the United Nations as a recruitment officer. Gay, but incredibly self-centred. Takes his coffee black."

Orlando narrows his eyes. "I'm not self-centred."

"Prove me wrong."

Orlando taps his fingers on the table, thinking. "Give me a few days. I can't prove you wrong if I'm trying."

Elijah shrugs. "Take your time."

"How did you know what kind of coffee I drink?"

Elijah shrugs. "Watched you order it."

Orlando grins. "Ah ha! You were watching me?"

"You looked like an idiot. You walked into a student hangout wearing a pressed black suit, probably Armani or some shit."

Orlando frowns. "It's not Armani."

"What is it, then?"

"Hugo Boss."

Elijah clucks his tongue.

"You really are an arse, aren't you?"

Elijah grins. "I've been called worse."

"Why do you always wear sunglasses indoors?"

"People tend to miss the rest of me if they can see my eyes."

"What are you, Superman? Laser beam eyes?" Orlando smiles playfully and Elijah shakes his head, leaning forward a bit.

"See for yourself."

Orlando's expression becomes serious and he reaches forward slowly, as if Elijah's a small animal he doesn't want to startle. He takes the glasses by the nosepiece and pulls, the small frames folding into his hand. Elijah has the bluest eyes he's ever seen in his life, but it's the expression that really throws him. Raw.

"You're beautiful," he says simply, shrugging and slipping the glasses into his jacket pocket. "You can have them at the end of lunch."

Elijah glares at him. "Now _I'm_ an ass?"

"I don't like people who won't show their eyes. It makes you feel like they have something to hide."

"So what if I do?"

"I'm a diplomat. It's my job to find out."

Elijah snorts. "You're a low-level UN employee. A fucking college recruiter."

"I'm twenty nine!"

"Still pretty slow moving up the ranks."

"Let's not talk about this." Orlando lowers his eyes, expression masked. Elijah is silent for a moment, chewing his food. Orlando does the same.

"Something happened," Elijah states, matter-of-fact, non-judgemental.

Orlando nods, but doesn't elaborate.

"You have neither a comeback nor a pick up line, so it must have been bad."

"Look mate, I don't want to…"

"Where did you live? Before coming here, I mean."

"London," Orlando replies shortly. Elijah nods. "Look, this is great and everything, but I've got somewhere to be…"

Elijah watches as Orlando pulls out and fishes bills from his wallet; stands up at the same time. Elijah bumps him, and the wallet falls. Orlando watches as Elijah leans down to get it, glances briefly at the International Driving License in the plastic protective cover, and hands it back.

Elijah smiles and covers Orlando's hand with his own. "I've got it."

Elijah throws a few bills on the table, and Orlando walks out, confused.

 

"So Canterbury, huh?"

Orlando looks up from his book, confused. Elijah is standing over him, and props one foot on the bench next to Orlando's hip, leaning forward with his forearm on his knee. There is a cigarette dangling from Elijah's fingers again and Orlando takes it, takes a drag.

"You looked me up."

Elijah shrugs and sits down, thigh-to-thigh. "I like knowing about people. _On the Road_, hmm?" He smirks. Elijah had been reading Kerouac in Austin, and they both know it.

"Aren't you ever accused of being a snoop?" Orlando returns the cigarette and doesn't smile, folding the corner of his page over before sliding the book back into his briefcase.

"All the time. Why do you always wear the same suit?"

"I only spend one day per campus working. I wash it in between."

"Man like you, Hugo Boss, can afford more than one suit."

"Can we _not_ talk about that?"

Elijah tilts his head to the side, interested.

"I'll find out, one day."

"Look, Monsieur l'Auteur, you'll only know as much about me as I'm willing to tell. So if you'll excuse me, I have an app…"

Orlando only gets halfway up from the bench, briefcase in hand, before Elijah tugs him back down by the wrist. With the other hand, cigarette precariously balanced, he lowers his shades—new ones; Orlando never did give that pair back in Austin—just enough so that Orlando can see his eyes and stares at him, a few inches away.

"Run away now, Orlando. But our schedules are too similar to avoid me forever. I'll respect your secrets, if you respect mine."

Orlando nods, slowly, if a little curt. He moves to stand again and this time Elijah releases him, barely acknowledging as he turns to march across Arizona State campus. Those eyes are with him for weeks.

 

"Happy Valentine's Day."

Orlando looks up. He's standing at the bus stop on the edge of Stanford campus, and it's fucking freezing. Far be it from the US government to actually spring for a car hire to get their employee from Stanford to San Francisco. Oh no.

Elijah, on the other hand, is driving a Miata.

"Is that yours?"

Elijah grins and pops the boot. "Throw your bag back there," he instructs. Orlando is sceptical for a moment, but it really is fucking freezing. He throws the small bag in the back and brings his briefcase up to the front with him, quickly pulling the door shut and sighing slightly at the blissful artificial heat.

"It's my sister's," he answers, belatedly. "She's in school in New York now, so mom says I can use it while I'm in California. Better than a rental."

Orlando snorts. "It is at that."

"Well, aren't you going to wish me a Happy Valentine's Day, then?" Elijah's smile is teasing. "I just saved your ass from the God-awful bus trip to San Francisco, did I not?"

Orlando frowns. "Happy Valentine's Day, right… are you going to San Francisco, too?"

"Indeed," Elijah replies. "Where's your hotel?" he asks as he pulls onto the freeway.

"Erm…" Orlando fishes a folded-up itinerary from his jacket pocket. "Radisson Fisherman's Wharf. 250 Beach Street."

Elijah whistles. "Nice digs, man."

Orlando shrugs. "The government gets a discount. What about you?"

"Friends. We're on a tight budget."

"Oh." Orlando waits a beat, considers. "Good friends?"

"Nah, couple of assholes I went to school with. They've got a couch."

"Well…" Orlando knows he's making an arse of himself yet again, but he asks anyway. "I'm in a suite. I have a sofa too, if you want to…"

Elijah smiles. "Are you asking me to sleep on your couch on Valentine's Day, man?"

Orlando rolls his eyes at that. "If I asked you to fuck me, would it make you feel better?"

Elijah barks out a laugh. "Not really. You bottom?" He sounds mildly interested. Orlando shrugs.

"I like to, yeah. A lot of the time. Do you?"

"Not really," Elijah admits. He lights a cigarette and wordlessly holds the box to Orlando.

"Cheers," he says as he slides a fag between his lips and leans towards Elijah and the proffered light. It takes a second with the wind from the rolled-down windows, and Elijah's hand is warm where Orlando cups it.

"Why did you leave Canterbury?"

Orlando sighs and takes in a deep drag, feeling the pleasant sting of his lungs filling with smoke and holding it a second before he exhales, flicking ash out the window. "Are we back to this again?"

Elijah grins, a little impishly. "I've got you trapped in a moving vehicle with me for an hour or two. Besides, I'm curious, but I _don't_ tell secrets. Ever."

Orlando looks sceptical. "You're an author."

"I use vague details. Usually people I don't know. I take notes and concoct their stories. We're past that," Elijah explains with a shrug. "I looked you up; I violated your trust to some extent. I won't write about you without your permission."

Orlando is surprised, and waits a moment before speaking.

"Thanks, mate."

"No problem. So…"

"I left in '98," Orlando interrupts. "Studied Political Science and got an Honours BA in Politics &amp; International Relations at the University of Kent, where I was living at home, and then left to work in London."

"At the UN?"

"No, actually. I had a friend at Uni… well, a boyfriend, really, might as well be honest. His name was Alistair."

"God, that's posh."

Orlando grins. "Yeah, I suppose. Anyway, he was from London, and his father owned a right ridiculously sized international corporation. I wasn't too keen on it, honestly, but by the time we graduated I was madly in love and Alistair was dead set on joining Daddy's company. As his best mate, I got a job there by default, though considerably below Ali's position."

"Doing what?"

"Pushing paper, essentially. I hated it, but I loved Ali, and it was honest work. I did nights tending bar at a queer club, and I took home a lot. People in the UK don't tip much, really, but I got good shifts because I was pretty to look at." Orlando snorts disdainfully, and Elijah doesn't comment. "Anyway, he didn't much like my second job, but I needed something I liked, and I liked bartending. I liked people looking at me," Orlando admits with a casual shrug and a nasty facial expression that doesn't quite match his body language.

"So we continued like that for a couple of years. It maybe got a bit sour, a bit routine and not quite the brilliant love affair it had started out as, but everyone hits a rough patch now and again. I wanted to be doing something more rewarding, human rights work maybe, but I carried on and moved up, bit by bit. Still pushing paper but making a bit more, nearly thirty thousand pounds a year."

Orlando pauses, stubbing out his cigarette and sighing as he rolls the window back up, the sudden quiet in the car a little unnerving. His fingers tap restlessly on his knee.

"It was a little over six years ago, the night of that whole Y2K mess, when it happened." Orlando sighs, shaking his head. "Sounds so fucking melodramatic, doesn't it?"

Elijah laughs lightly. "It was a dark and stormy night…" He tosses Orlando a sympathetic smile before returning his attention to the road.

Orlando laughs as well, a bit bitterly. "Yeah, well. It wasn't. It was a clear night, and we were having a party in our flat. Old school friends of Ali's, mostly, no one from work but we were still playing the 'flatmates' angle. Ali didn't really like to talk about us to anyone he knew, you know, classic closet queer syndrome."

Elijah groans slightly and Orlando smiles.

"My thoughts exactly. I am what I am. But anyway, it got me in a fuck of a lot of trouble, because I got a little drunk, and there was a fight. I ended up screaming at him, 'hey listen Ali, why don't you tell all these people who I really am?' Unfortunately, we were out on the balcony at the time. Ali got mad, and shoved me into the railing, which was a little creaky anyway."

"Oh, shit," Elijah breathes, guessing the end of the tale.

"Yeah. That. They say it's a miracle I survived. Second storey—that's third to you—and my back was broken, straight line down the spine. There was surgery, and weeks of recovery, and of course I was out of a job. I stayed home in Canterbury for two months, depressed and single."

"Was that when you got a job with the UN?"

"Sort of. Alistair chose to 'liberate' me of a lot of my personal property after the accident, and a fair amount of cash as well. He assumed, correctly, that I wouldn't be in much of a condition to fight for it, and so I found myself pretty screwed, and pretty broke. His love apparently had revolved a lot more around my looks and my available arse than I had realised, and he had been planning on breaking it off, anyway. In his career, I was a liability."

"Fucking…"

"Yeah, I know." Orlando's lips curl up in a wry smile. "Anything you could say about him, trust me, I've already said it and worse. Anyway, there was a limit to my stepfather's patience, and by the time April rolled around he wanted me to find a job. I still wasn't back up to a hundred percent movement, but I was getting there."

"Christ."

"Yeah. I worked odd jobs for a while, going in for interviews. I had been fired from the corporation though, and it was hard to get a position in the field with nothing but my degree and one unrelated position from which I was dismissed. In 2001 I interviewed with the British government and got a temporary position in London for a year. It paid next to nothing, but there were decent benefits, and it was positive material for my CV. And then, at the beginning of 2002, I applied with the UN. Fortunately, they have non-discrimination clauses that apply to both sexual orientation and disability, so they looked on my being fired as irrelevant to the hiring process. _Un_fortunately, however, they didn't have anything for me in Britain, nor elsewhere in Europe, so my application was forwarded to the headquarters in New York. I got a low-level position there in March, and then after two years was transferred over to university recruiting, and here I am."

Elijah is quiet for a moment, then lets out a long breath. "Jesus, man. I'm sorry I ever made fun of you…"

"Don't," Orlando interrupts him, his tone harsh. "Don't you fucking feel sorry for me, Elijah. I can't take that."

Elijah looks at him for a long moment, and then nods. "All right."

"I… you're right, you know. I am self-centred," Orlando admits after a moment. "I have to be, I suppose. I protect myself, and I do let the world revolve around me to some extent. All that taught me that if you trust other people, if you're open and honest and care about helping other people, then you're going to get burned. You've got to look out for number one."

Elijah frowns. "That's bullshit. And it doesn't sound like you."

"How the hell do you know?" Orlando challenges.

"Because I can read you, you jackass!" Elijah exclaims. "It's what I do. I read people. And you're an open fucking book, and yeah, you're a bit selfish, a bit vain. Sure, you like people to look at you, but you're not so self-involved that you don't care about anyone else. If that were true, you never would've tried."

Orlando stares at him. "Never would've tried what?"

"New Orleans. You were brash, sure, but you were also nervous. Your cheeks were pink and your coffee cup was trembling, just slightly. These shades give me license to pay attention," Elijah explains, gesturing with one hand to his ever-present dark glasses. "You needed a friend that day."

Orlando looks into his lap. "It was my birthday," he admits.

Elijah's lips quirk into a smile. "You're shitting me."

"You didn't look it up?" Orlando asks with a slightly accusatory tone.

"Nah."

"Then why is that so funny?"

"Remember Austin? The hot sauce?"

"Yeah."

Elijah grins. "Seeing you nearly burn your tongue out made for one of my better birthdays."

Orlando glares. "You're not serious?"

"Twenty-fifth, man. I never mention it."

Orlando bites his lip and stares out the window. "I used to make a bigger deal of mine, before. But thirteen days after the accident…"

"Made it a bit depressing?"

"A bit."

"You would've been how old, then?"

"Twenty three. And it's all down hill from there," he adds with a cynical smile.

Elijah shakes his head, smiling. "Shut up, you pessimistic little shit. You're going to make me cry, and I _will_ take my glasses off and haunt you with the Big Blue-eyed Tears of Doom."

And at that, Orlando lets out a genuine laugh.

 

"Hey, they've got a pool!" Elijah exclaims, flipping through a brochure as the clerk gets Orlando his room key. Orlando rolls his eyes.

"It's ten degrees outside. We're not going swimming."

"You big baby," Elijah protests. "It is _not_ ten degrees outside. I'm from Iowa, and I know what ten degrees feels like…" He trails off. "Oh. Celsius?"

Orlando rolls his eyes and takes the key from the counter, nodding politely to the clerk. "Yes. Come on. We're on the third floor."

The room, it turns out, has a small balcony with a lovely view of the heated outdoor pool. It also has no couch.

"Shit. I could have sworn they said this one was en suite…"

Elijah smirks. "I think you're still too used to Europe, Bloom. Here, en suite tends to mean 'has a bathroom.' It's fine; I'll give my friends a call…"

"No!" Orlando insists, maybe a bit hurriedly. Elijah raises and eyebrow and Orlando blushes, eyes lowering to the wine-coloured carpet as he shrugs. "I mean, the bed's not that small…"

Elijah grins and punches his shoulder playfully. "I promise not to molest you in your sleep."

"Yeah, and likewise," Orlando agrees, throwing his bag in the corner. When he turns around, Elijah is stripping off his t-shirt, and Orlando is slightly concerned. "What the hell are you doing, mate?"

Elijah grins. "Changing clothes."

"Why?"

"Because I feel like it. And because I'm taking you out to dinner and then we're going dancing."

"Excuse me? You're not taking me out anywhere. You just drove me to San Francisco and I didn't give you a penny for petrol. If we're having dinner, I'm buying."

Elijah shakes his head, smiling without concern. "No you're not," he disagrees, rummaging through a duffle bag and pulling out a surprisingly unwrinkled black shirt, long-sleeved, button down, and slightly shiny. "Have you ever been to San Francisco?"

"What the fuck does that have to do with…"

"Answer the question," Elijah insists as he does up his buttons. "Have you?"

"No."

"Well there you go. No self-respecting gay man goes to San Francisco without having a night on the town, and everyone knows spending Valentine's Day alone or at home is depressing. So tonight, you're my valentine."

Orlando raises an eyebrow. "What happened to the no-molestation policy?"

Elijah smirks. "Still holds, man. You're required to eat with me, go to a gay club with me, and dance with me. You are not required to spread your ass for me," he promises.

Orlando does not feel entirely reassured, and his body shivers uncontrollably at the crude phrasing. "Right, well… where are we going, then?"

"You'll see," Elijah says with a cheery smile. "I promise you'll enjoy yourself. Come on, when's the last time you went on a date?"

Orlando thinks. "I fucked a few guys when I first came to New York."

Elijah tsks him. "Date, Orlando. Last date."

Orlando thinks harder, and comes up dry. "I… I'm not sure, really. I don't know if I've ever… oh Christ, that's lame."

Elijah's eyes widen. "You've never been on a date?"

"Oh piss off! It's not like that… I mean, I was in a relationship for several years, we just never had a chance to…"

"Sounds like a pretty crap boyfriend to me," Elijah says as he walks into the bathroom, eyeliner in hand.

"Yes, well. You know I've got a few choice words, but I don't really expect the date thing anymore."

"That's bullshit," Elijah insists as Orlando follows him into the bathroom and runs a comb through his curls in the mirror. "You don't buy into romance?"

Orlando blushes and lowers his eyes, bites his lip. "I love it. It just doesn't happen all that often."

Elijah rolls his eyes. "Quit feeling sorry for yourself. C'mon, Bloom. I'm going to give you an American romantic evening that you will never forget."

Elijah's grin is cheeky and Orlando can't help but laugh. "Are you asking me out on a date?"

Elijah smiles back, his eyes impossibly piercing without the shades hiding them for once, his voice low and serious. "I'm not asking."

 

The evening begins with martinis in the hotel bar. Elijah's wearing his button down with tight jeans and leather boots, and a navy blue pea coat that comes down to his knees because it's chilly out. His scarf is a slightly more vibrant blue, and cashmere, and Orlando has a strange urge to rub his cheek against it.

Elijah's made him dress up a little, despite the sparse contents of his bag. A black jumper, thin with a wide, low neckline, and one of Elijah's scarves, a rather flamboyant shade of purple, knotted around his neck like a tie. He wears his usual black suit jacket with it, and dark wash jeans, and Elijah lines his eyes all the way 'round in black and pronounces him sexy. Orlando flushes a little as they walk out the door.

After drinks, it's on to a restaurant, a vegetarian place not far from the hotel with cosy little low booths and amazing shojin cuisine.

"Did you know that I'm Buddhist?" Orlando asks as he sips at his coconut soup. Elijah tilts his head and shakes it.

"No. You haven't told me."

"After the accident, I started realising that there were a lot of things wrong with my… outlook, I guess. You know, the selfishness, the vanity. I wasn't really in my right mind, so I started meditating."

"Does it help?"

Orlando nods. "Yeah. But I'm still not exactly your model practitioner. I give things up a little at a time—meat, but not alcohol. Not even weed."

Elijah laughs, delighted. "You smoke?'

"From time to time."

"Well don't give that one up just yet."

"Are you going to get me high and seduce me, Mr. Wood?" Orlando's eyes are laughing as he takes a sip of his tea. Elijah grins.

"Just might."

 

After dinner, they head to one of the "gayer" neighbourhoods, as Elijah puts it. There isn't one gay section of San Francisco, he explains, as 'we wouldn't all fit.' But there are places to go if you want to see and be seen. Orlando asks if that's the case for Elijah, tonight. He shrugs and says, "I want to be seen with you." Orlando thinks, coming from Elijah, that this is strangely romantic.

The Castro is kind of skeezy, but it's a bit comforting to be surrounding by almost entirely men—some twinks, some in leather, some more conservative, like Orlando himself. There are a few women, probably lesbians, but it's so much more obvious than in New York or London, where there are gay people everywhere but they sort of filter themselves through the population. Here, he and Elijah are the norm. He kind of likes it that way.

They pass by the dance clubs blasting house and Top 40 music with their requisite over-tanned in the middle of February, egregiously muscled patrons. There are a couple of leather bars, and a dyke bar. A drag show's on at one club, but Elijah keeps walking until they end up at a club on Market. It's a bit posh, but not so much that they can't get in, and Orlando's glad because it's getting a bit cold. Inside, they check their coats and some indie band is playing with a thick, driving industrial beat. Elijah pulls Orlando out onto the dance floor without asking and almost immediately his wrists are crossed at the nape of Orlando's neck and his hips are rolling seductively with the music. He looks up and grins, infectiously, and Orlando laughs. Elijah's eyes without the shades and with the eyeliner are almost comically blue, and Orlando has to fight off the urge to kiss him.

After an hour or two of dancing and several girly drinks consumed between them, they leave and decide to walk it off, the cold a little less pressing with the warm buzz of inebriation flowing through their veins. Elijah is giggling a lot, and Orlando finds that he loves the sound, loves the way Elijah takes his arm with both hands and leans on him a bit as they head down the sidewalk.

Their next stop is the Haight, which is a bit more Goth than it used to be, Elijah explains, but he knows a place with fantastic burritos. Orlando starts to unwrap his once they've paid, but Elijah covers Orlando's hand with his own and smiles secretively. "Save it," he suggests, and both foil-wrapped burritos go back into the bag to stay hot.

Next, they meander up to Pacific Heights, and Elijah leads the way to Alta Plaza Park, where they have a seat on a bench with a fabulous view of the city. Elijah smiles broadly as he tugs Orlando closer, their thighs touching and one of Orlando's arms around him, and then digs into his jacket pocket.

"Whadya say?" he asks, still grinning, as he holds up a couple of joints in a baggie. Orlando laughs and nods, taking the first joint and cupping his hand against the slightly biting wind as Elijah leans in and lights.

"Christ, that's good," Orlando exclaims when he lets the smoke out in a puff of air. Elijah smiles and takes a slow drag.

"I've got a friend in LA. Real premium shit," he agrees, snuggling a little closer. "You're not going to get all weird on me, are you?"

Orlando frowns. "What do you mean, weird?" He takes another drag.

"I mean," Elijah explains, "I have this overwhelming desire to fuck you tonight." Orlando sucks in a breath so fast he almost chokes on the smoke in his lungs. "But I don't want us to stop being… us."

Orlando frowns. "I don't know why we would. But… what is this, exactly? I mean, is this just a fuck you're talking about?" He passes the joint, and Elijah takes a drag.

"No." Elijah shakes his head, a bit vehemently, before resting it on Orlando's shoulder and tucking his knees up to the side. "We're both a couple of slightly cynical romantics, are we not? I was thinking you might like to be lovers, you know."

Orlando smiles. "You're serious?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?" Elijah looks up at him, his neck twisting slightly. He looks strangely vulnerable.

"You're just… very sure of yourself," Orlando tries to explain, flicking ash onto the ground. "I didn't know that you'd be interested in me, the way that I… well the way that I'd very much like to be interested in you."

Elijah snorts. "Stop protecting yourself."

"What?"

"I'm serious; stop it. You're giving yourself all these outs. Self-deprecation, hedging, you'd 'like to be' interested in me. Are you or aren't you?"

Orlando frowns. "Yes."

"Yes? Yes, you're interested?"

Orlando smiles slightly and puts the joint to his lips, taking a short drag and exhaling before he speaks. "Yeah. I'm interested."

"Good. Then quit trying to hold back. It's me, remember? The total no-holds-barred asshole who's always driving you up a fucking wall?"

Orlando giggles. He thinks the pot may be affecting him.

Elijah smiles. "Dude. Just be yourself, you idiot."

Orlando smiles back and dips his head low, taking Elijah slightly by surprise as he presses their lips together. Elijah's lips are warm, and as he licks the seam he tastes the sweetness of the smoke. Elijah's lips part willingly, but Orlando pulls back slightly, speaking into Elijah's half-open mouth.

"You are so _bloody_ sexy," he rasps, and Elijah trembles. Orlando gives himself a mental gold star for actually making Elijah's control waver a bit.

That, of course, is short lived, because Elijah is climbing into Orlando's lap now, facing him, knees pressing in against Orlando's hips, and he's taking the joint from Orlando's fingers and inhaling, and then pressing their lips together, hot and open-mouthed, to let the smoke pass between them. Orlando moans and licks the tip of Elijah's tongue, his hands splaying out at Elijah's lower back, his pinkie fingers just brushing the curve of Elijah's arse.

"Bloody long coats," he mumbles as they finally separate, and Elijah giggles gleefully and tilts his head to the side, nibbling along the curve of Orlando's ear.

"I'm going to fuck you," Elijah promises in a breathy whisper, a little like a moan, as he presses down with his hips. "On your elbows, bent over the foot of the bed." Orlando moans and tilts his head to the side to allow Elijah more room as he bites lightly at the jugular and then sucks, hard enough to leave a mark. "I'm not even going to take your jacket off, just your belt and shove your pants down and finger-fuck you until you beg me."

Orlando whimpers and bucks his hips. "Won't take long," he replies with a trembling voice. Elijah grins devilishly.

"No," he agrees. "It won't." He unknots Orlando's scarf with slightly clumsy fingers and throws it over the back of the bench, pushing aside the lapels of his jacket and nudging the jumper down with his nose so that he can suck on the hollow of Orlando's throat. Orlando moans. "I'm going to fuck you like that, and then when I can't stand it anymore, I'm going to pull out and make you lie on the bed on your back, and I'm going to tie your wrists together with that scarf, and I'm going to tie it again to the lamp over the bed—nice and sturdy, brass lamp, you can bet like fuck I noticed," he continues, words slurring slightly as his hips rock into Orlando's. "Then I'm going to bend your legs back and fuck you till you _scream_, Orlando, till you scream my name."

Orlando gasps, whinges, rocks his hips harder. "Can't wait… now… need… so good…" He's utterly blissed out on the drug and Elijah's dirty mouth, and the hotel room seems worlds away right now. Elijah just grins and shakes his head, scrambles out of Orlando's lap and tosses the joint, now burned almost all the way down, stubbing it out with his toe. Orlando eyes the other one in its baggie, but Elijah shakes his head and pockets it, shaking his head.

"No. I want you aware for this," he explains, and Orlando whimpers again.

"You bloody tease… you're fucking _torturing_ me, you know," he groans as Elijah reaches down and pulls out the burritos, handing the bean one to Orlando.

"Nah," Elijah disagrees, casually, as he peels back the foil. "Later, I'll torture you. Tip of the iceberg, baby. It's all downhill from here."

Orlando just groans.

 

Later that night, Elijah does everything he'd promised to Orlando, and if Orlando has hoped not to get too involved, it's too late now. They wake in a tangle of sweaty sheets, dried come still sticking to Orlando's stomach, and Elijah grins like a cat who's gotten the cream.

There is a quick mutual wank in the shower, imbued with hot kisses and dirty words, before Elijah has to head to the Academy of Art College to do some interviews. Orlando has the day off, so he dresses casually and tags along. Elijah makes fun of his casual clothing—beige button-down shirt with the top buttons undone, a black and beige beaded necklace, and faded jeans—but then admits that he likes it, and lends Orlando a deep-brown knit scarf because it matches perfectly.

Orlando stays unobtrusively in the background while Elijah does his job, but he watches intently. Elijah is casual, has no trouble connecting to the students. He drops a survey form off at the admissions office and then spends a few hours just walking around, looking for people to talk to, recording their answers for possible quotes. He asks the typical questions—about the classes, the professors, student life and the residence halls—but the students treat him like one of them. When Orlando does his job, he always feels like a potential boss (even though he's not); there's a clear disconnect between himself and the student body. Elijah is genuinely interested in these kids' lives, and they get into conversations about activism on campus, classic punk bands, and their current art projects. It's not always relevant to the book, but it gets them talking, and Elijah clearly wants to know.

Orlando balls his hands into tight fists at his sides when he watches Elijah with a senior photography major, from a few feet away. Elijah is joking with the kid, holding the tape recorder in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The guy is flamboyant, certainly, purple streaks in his hair and sparkly patches on his denim jacket. He's obscenely thin, and he looks very cool, in that emo-kid way. Orlando thinks, with a snort, that he's probably Elijah's "type." That's the last interview, and Orlando bites his lip when the kid asks Elijah for coffee, preparing to make himself scarce. Elijah declines.

When they approach each other, Elijah is already smiling knowingly.

"I didn't want him."

Orlando frowns. "You brought it up."

"And you were thinking it."

"How do you know that? You're not a bloody mind-reader."

Elijah just smiles and pulls Orlando close, tucking himself neatly under Orlando's shoulder and slipping his hand into Orlando's back pocket. "C'mon. It's okay to be possessive. It's kind of sexy."

Orlando grumbles. "You wouldn't be possessive about me."

Elijah stops, turns, and arches an eyebrow. "Wouldn't I?"

Orlando hesitates. "Would you?"

"I may not look very scary, but someone starts coming onto you and they'll know where they stand," Elijah warns.

Orlando smiles and ducks his head, kissing Elijah briefly and tugging his lower lip slightly when he pulls away. "You're perfect."

Elijah blushes. "Far from it."

"For me, right now, you are. Now where are we going?"

Elijah chooses to drop it. "Sandwiches and coffees, and then you're going shopping."

"_I'm_ going shopping? Elijah, I can't exactly afford…"

Elijah holds up a hand as they start walking again, now with fingers intertwined. "Don't. I'll take care of it."

"Elijah, I'm not letting you buy things for me."

"I can afford it."

"You're a writer!"

Elijah's eyes follow his own feet. "I have money, Orlando. It's just where I come from, and I'm not extremely comfortable with it. Now please, let me buy you some things. It will make me happy."

Orlando sighs. "Fine, I guess. But what are we buying?"

"Clothes. Vintage clothes. You can't go to San Francisco without thrift store shopping," Elijah explains.

"Thrift store? Elijah, I don't think my style is exactly 'thrift store chic'…"

"Exactly. That's why you need new clothing. I promise; you'll love it."

Orlando isn't convinced.

 

"Eee!"

Orlando just stares at Elijah, who follows his extremely undignified squeal with a flailing of the hands before pulling a tan-coloured suede jacket off a rack.

Elijah, of course, looks perfect in the thrift store, among all the indie and hipster chic kids, with his worn leather jacket and hand-knit green scarf and strange eighties sunglasses. Orlando feels distinctly out of place, and has no clue what to look for, but Elijah is so excited that he can't help but smile.

"Try this on. Right now. C'mon. It's perfect!"

Orlando smiles and eyes the jacket noncommittally. It's a bit chilly again today, despite his long sleeves and Elijah's scarf, and when he shrugs into the suede jacket, buttoning the single button just above his belly button, he feels instantly warmer. Must be the lining.

"Oh my God, Orlando. You're getting it."

"Well, I mean… it's nice," Orlando agrees with a slightly shy smile, turning and eyeing himself in the mirror. The jacket is cut perfectly to his slim frame, and just the right length, and of course just happens to match what he's got on today. Elijah steps up behind him in the mirror, wraps his arms around Orlando's waist, and breathes deeply, his nose pressing against Orlando's shoulder.

"Mmm. I am going to fuck you so hard tonight…"

Elijah's whisper makes Orlando shudder, his eyes going wide in the mirror, and Elijah grins.

"You're getting it," he repeats, no objections allowed. Orlando shrugs and looks at the price tag. Twenty bucks. Not too bad. "No. Let me buy it," Elijah insists, throwing it over his arm with a couple of old band t-shirts he's found for himself and a ridiculous studded 70's belt.

"Elijah, you don't have to…"

"Shut up," Elijah insists, standing on tiptoe to kiss Orlando's cheek before they head to the till. "I want to."

 

They spend the rest of the afternoon walking around San Francisco, with the help of their car to bounce between neighbourhoods. Elijah shows Orlando the City Lights Bookstore, which he is absolutely mesmerised by, and Orlando delights in the look of unguarded happiness on Elijah's face as he flips through the titles.

Orlando is starting to realise something about Elijah. He is not purposefully intimidating, suave, or anything of the things Orlando had originally thought about him. He does not _intend_ to be different or unapproachable. He's just a bloody amazing person, and that scares people off. Orlando's glad he took a chance, because now that he realises this, Elijah's becoming not only an ideal lover, but an excellent person to have as a friend.

At Orlando's request, they spend an hour in the Museum of Modern Art, and then end up at the Ferry Building Marketplace, purchasing the makings of a gourmet picnic. Elijah is extremely enthusiastic about their dinner, and buys much more food than Orlando thinks is strictly necessary, but at least there will be leftovers for lunch.

They eat their picnic at the Yerba Buena Gardens, and Elijah teaches Orlando the finer points of people watching as he sits between Orlando's legs, leaning back against his chest, taking notes on people's appearances and mannerisms as Orlando feeds him morsels from the picnic basket.

Their evening entertainment is a trip to the Beach Blanket Babylon revue at North Beach, during which they hardly stop laughing throughout the show. Afterwards, Elijah does his best cabaret routine in the middle of a narrow street, and Orlando laughs so hard he nearly faints. The evening ends, oddly enough, kissing under the moon on the steps of Grace Cathedral.

"This has to have been the most spectacular day any man could hope to spend," Orlando exclaims as they make it back to their hotel room, after midnight, cheeks rosy from laughter and the cold. He starts to unbutton his jacket, but Elijah, smiling, holds out a hand.

"No. Leave it."

And then, the grin never leaving his lips, Elijah takes Orlando by the lapels and pulls him down, just smiling at him, their noses touching, for a moment, until he finally presses their lips together for a kiss that warms Orlando right down to the soul.

He groans as the kiss deepens, his arms cupping Elijah's lower back possessively, pulling him in. They don't stop until they're gasping for air, and then Elijah giggles and shoves Orlando hard by the shoulders, landing him on his back on the bed. Orlando winces slightly, but then he's smiling. Elijah crawls atop him and frowns.

"Your back?"

Orlando brushes it off, his eyes going slightly guarded. "It's nothing. Not that bad."

Elijah shakes his head. "I want to see it. Your scar. I didn't really get to see you last night, you know."

"Elijah, I don't think…."

"Please?" Elijah's voice is soft, beseeching, and Orlando can't deny him anything. Slowly, he pushes the button through the buttonhole and sits up a bit awkwardly on his elbows to shrug the jacket off. Elijah, still straddling his hips, unwinds the scarf and places it on the bed next to the jacket. For every shirt button he undoes, there is a small kiss—lips, eyelids, forehead, cheeks, jaw—and then he is pulling that too from Orlando's shoulders. The older man sighs and rolls, slowly, to his stomach. Elijah gasps when the sharp point of a hip rubs his erection during the movement, and then exhales when he sees it.

"Orlando," he breathes out, reverent. Orlando shudders. He knows what Elijah is seeing—a straight line from nape of the neck to small of the back, a scar several centimetres wide. It is his vulnerability displayed in his very tissue, a frightening image even after all these years. He still rarely looks at it in the mirror.

Orlando breathes slowly, careful breaths, trying to steady himself as Elijah presses two firm hands, palms down, to either side of his spine, midway up his back. When Elijah bends and places a kiss to the very top of the scar, then traces down with feather-light pressure and just a hint of moisture, Orlando chokes on a sob.

"You're beautiful," Elijah whispers against his lower back, the other end of the scar. Orlando shakes his head frantically, frightened, overwhelmed, and Elijah flips him back over roughly, taking his face firmly in two small hands and pressing their foreheads together. "You. Are. Beautiful," he repeats, kissing Orlando hard on the mouth. Orlando can feel teeth pressing through the line of Elijah's lips. It is strangely comforting.

"I can't…" Orlando whimpers, feeling a ghost of the pain from when it happened. "I can't do this."

"You can," Elijah replies immediately, his thumbs stroking Orlando's cheeks. "You will, you bastard, and you'll let me help you." A small smile curls up his lips, and Orlando matches it, shakily. Elijah really is a stubborn son of a bitch.

"It's hard," he admits in a whisper. "I still remember…"

"You'll remember for the rest of your life," Elijah says seriously. He threads his fingers through Orlando's curls and tugs, gently. "You can't make it go away, but you can face it, you know. You went through it and you got through—it's time to stop blocking it, to get some closure."

Tears are still pricking at Orlando's eyes, and he feels like a helpless child. "I don't know where to start."

Elijah smiles warmly, and Orlando feels that he's asked the right question. It's a satisfying feeling.

"Start with me."

Orlando smiles genuinely now, and almost laughs, and kisses him. That, he can do.

 

After San Francisco, they're apart for a few weeks. Orlando gets a text message from Elijah with a list of must-see sights in Seattle, and he peruses the used-record store with a smile on his face before ordering a chai latte at a brilliant little hole-in-the-wall with overstuffed beanbag chairs. When they meet up again in Portland, it's bitterly cold, and Orlando extends a hand with a Stereophonics CD and a Jeff Buckley bootleg before even hugging him.

"Oh my God, you are the shit!" Elijah exclaims as he throws his arms around Orlando's neck and wraps his legs around Orlando's waist. Orlando stumbles back a few steps, laughing gleefully, and they just stare at each other, grinning like loons, before Orlando finally ducks his head forward and smacks one on Elijah's lips.

"You look great," Orlando breathes as he sets Elijah back down, but doesn't remove his arms from around Elijah's waist. And he does, even though its just his usual pea coat and jeans and those dorky eighties shades. Orlando buries his nose in the cashmere of the blue scarf at Elijah's throat, and Elijah sighs into Orlando's hair. He looks the same as he always does, and there's nothing Orlando would rather see.

"You too," Elijah whispers, and then he tilts his head up and bites lightly at Orlando's jaw. "Plans for the afternoon?"

Orlando shudders as Elijah's hand tugs a little at the hair near the nape of his neck and shakes his head, disinclined to speak. Elijah grins and lets his hand drop to take Orlando's hand, tugging lightly as Orlando shoulders his bag again.

"My hotel, then."

 

They make love more slowly than usual, Elijah's hands wandering to memorise every part of Orlando's body, his lips enthusiastically tasting every inch skin. By the time Elijah finally pushes inside, Orlando is so desperate that he thrusts forward himself, impaling himself on Elijah's cock and kissing him fiercely until he comes with a gasp, as if it were unexpected, and then moans in pleasure.

Elijah kisses him straight through his own orgasm, and Orlando can taste all the nuances of desperation, followed that plateau of no return, just before the rush of intense pleasure and the final satisfaction. He strokes Elijah's back as they meld into each other, exhausted, refusing to move.

As he drifts into a not-quite-slumber, Orlando mouths the word "love" against Elijah's hairline, and Elijah smiles.

 

The next month is somewhat frustrating. Both men are working essentially eastward along the northern edge of states, but their schedules don't quite match. As March wears on, this part of the country is still freezing cold, and it's worse with no one there to warm the bed. But, there are always phone calls, often from a Greyhound bus or rental car on the way from one destination from the next, and Orlando learns more about Elijah than he ever expected Elijah to volunteer.

They both want similar things from life—healthy relationships with friends and lovers, career advancement, and opportunities to travel. Neither mind being apart for periods of time, as long as they can reunite from time to time. Orlando is surprised at the intensity of his feelings, but he doesn't shy away. Elijah wouldn't let him.

In mid-April, they finally meet again for brunch at Orange in Chicago.

"How was Iowa, then? Was it good to see your family? Tell me everything."

Elijah nods through a mouthful of chai tea French toast and Orlando smiles as he picks at his Frushi.

"Aunt Janey makes the most amazing dinners, my God… haven't eaten like that since, oh, circa 2002."

The waitress passes to refill their coffees and notices their joined hands next to the sugar bowl. She gives them an accommodating smile, and Elijah nods before continuing.

"Bacon that would clog your arteries for _years_, and fried tomatoes and mashed potatoes and green beans… God."

Orlando smiles and rubs the back of Elijah's hand with his thumb.

"I'm sure you get tired of all my veg shite, huh?"

"Nah." Elijah shakes his head. "I like organic food sometimes. But you can't beat a big home-cooked meal. Someday I'll take you to Aunt Janey's and you'll meet the kids and have some scalloped potatoes and broccoli au gratin and you'll die and go to heaven."

Orlando smiles. "It sounds perfect. I wish I could offer to take you back to my family, but you know… plane ticket…"

"I'll buy us each one, sometime," Elijah promises in a tone that brokers no argument. "I'd love to meet your family."

Orlando smiles. "It's been so long since I've seen Mum, let alone my aunts and uncles…"

"Do you have a big family?" Elijah asks, stealing a bite of Frushi.

"Not especially. My mum has two sisters, and my da had a sister and a brother. My stepfather is an only child."

"Grandparents?"

Orlando shakes his head. "Not anymore. I have a few cousins but most of them I haven't met."

"And everyone's in England?"

"For the most part. I have one aunt in Spain. I've only visited once, when I was studying for my Spanish A-levels. In Valencia."

"That must be beautiful."

"It's amazing. You'd love Spain, I'm sure. And France, and Italy."

"We'll go sometime, together. We'll take a nice long vacation and tour Europe."

Orlando frowns. "Elijah, the expense…"

Elijah shakes his head and squeezes Orlando's hand. "Don't even think about it. This is something I want to do with you. End discussion."

Orlando shrugs, though it bothers him slightly.

"Now tell me more about your family. Do any of them cook? I don't even know what a big English meal would be…"

Orlando smiles genuinely now, a far-off look on his face. "Well, Aunt Claire makes a bloody excellent fry-up. Black pudding, fried bread, tomatoes, mushrooms eggs, bacon, bangers, rashers, toast and jam, the works."

Elijah smiles. "I don't know what any of that is, but it sounds great."

"Heart attack on a plate, but it's comforting."

"Where does she live, Aunt Claire?"

"Bristol."

"Did you visit your family much as a kid?"

Orlando shrugs. "We went on holiday sometimes as a family in August, at the shore. Once we spent Christmas in the lake country with some of the aunts and uncles, and another time in Scotland, near Inverness. My mum's family isn't especially close, and I think my da's family always resented her for marrying again."

Elijah frowns. "Your father died though, right?"

Orlando nods. "When I was four. I think they know, though… well… I don't tell many people this…" Elijah squeezes his hand again and Orlando shuts his eyes to avoid tears. "He's not really my father. Harry Bloom, I mean. I always thought… when I was thirteen though, I found out. They were married, but my mum was already having an affair with my stepfather. I'm his child biologically, and Sam's my real sister."

Elijah's face is expressionless, his thumb stroking Orlando's hand reassuringly. "You still kept his name, though," he notes in a soft tone.

Orlando nods. "He's the kind of father to be proud of—war hero, activist—he always stood up for the little people. I wanted to live up to him, you know, to his name. We're not related, but I wanted us to be. I suppose when I went to Uni, I was hoping that I'd be able to get involved in humanitarian work and that I'd somehow deserve to be a part of his family, even though there's no biological link. I don't want to be a Stone. I don't want those bad parts of my stepfather's personality to be a part of me, but… they are," he explains with a shrug. "I'm not a hero, or an aid worker, or anything I want to be. I sold out to corporate life and then when I was down and out, I ran away."

Elijah frowns and reaches across the table, taking Orlando's face in his hands and pinning him with a steady stare. "No. That's not you, Orli, and I'm not going to listen to you say those things about yourself."

"Elijah, I…"

"Listen to me, Orli. Who gives a fuck if you're not a humanitarian worker? You _do_ care about people, and you're recruiting for an organisation designed to protect people's rights. Sure, you're not out in a fucking jungle somewhere, but you're here with me, and _I_ need you," Elijah admits. "And you didn't sell out for corporate life, you made a change because you were in love. There's no shame in that, whether the choice worked out or not. You have so fucking much love in you, and you'd better not be ashamed of that or I will kick your ass all the way back to London, you bastard."

Orlando stares at Elijah for a moment, and then leans across the table and kisses him, hard, tears welling up in his eyes. His elbow upsets the butter dish, but he doesn't care, nor does he care about the restaurant's patrons who are undoubtedly staring at them. Elijah needs him. And that's all he cares to know.

 

The journey ends in New York, where both Elijah and Orlando are based. All of Elijah's notes for the book are in just under the wire, in time for publication. Orlando submits his recommendations to the UN recruitment office, and they spend a long weekend in June in Elijah's air-conditioned apartment, making love.

In July, they spend two weeks in England. Elijah laughs at what the English consider a "shore," and nearly dies from overeating after one of Aunt Claire's fry-ups. Orlando has to grab Elijah by the waist to keep him from walking out in London traffic when a double-decker bus comes barrelling down the street from the right, and they both get nearly seasick from the ferry ride to Calais. After a week in France with a short diversion in Valencia to see Orlando's relatives, they're on a plane again, ready to prepare for another year's edition of the same book and another class of graduates to recruit, but they are still together. For Orlando's 30th birthday, they arrange to be in New Orleans again, and have coffee at that same cafÈ before going back to the hotel to make love for the rest of the day. For Elijah's 26th, there is no party and no one else knows, but Orlando buys him a necklace with a single charm, a silver pair of sunglasses. Elijah gives him a bewildered look, and Orlando explains with a blush. "I was the one that got to look into your eyes and see the truth. I've never forgotten that." Elijah grins and fucks him among the branches of a magnolia tree. Orlando still hasn't stopped thanking God, the Buddha, and seven or eight saints that he came out of that tree without another broken back.

Years later, when Orlando is a diplomat in charge of a major UNICEF relief project, and Elijah is writing the novel that tells their story, they live together in Paris with occasional trips to Africa to oversee the project. Orlando never stops telling Elijah how much he loves him, and Elijah never tries to hide anything from his lover. He doesn't need to.


End file.
